The Mind trap
by beautifully psychotic
Summary: a nameless 12 year old girl, stuck in a hopeless life with her bipolar father and her mentally challenged, angelic younger brother, Danny. It's the story of mankind's deadliest trap, the mind trap.
1. The beginning

**Chapter- The beginning**

A man's eyes are the portal to his soul, or so they say. Danny's eyes were the rusting cellar doors leading to his prison. No matter how long I searched and no matter where I looked, I couldn't find the key to free him. He was my little Danny, my gift from God in the form of a little brother. People looked at him and couldn't find a person, but as I'd spent my whole life getting to know him, he became so complex that it literally stole all meaning from the word "retard." That's who he was to my father. Not Danny, "tard child". When he was really mad he didn't even put enough energy forth to say child and instead Danny was just "tard". At times when he was really drunk it was mutated into "mmtoard". My father was one of the only people I was exposed to for the first 13 years of my life. That **can't** be healthy.

I spent every moment taking care of Danny and when he wasn't there I passed my time worrying about him. He was physically old enough to take care of his 9 year old self, but mentally he would never be independent. When his diaper was full, I was the only one willing to change it. No wait... I was the only one willing to go **near** him. I guess it wasn't my job to relieve him of life, only to make sure he suffered as little as possible while still alive. It was God's job to free him and for some sick reason he found it necessary to keep him trapped for just a bit longer. It was as if he hadn't suffered enough. As if **I** hadn't endured enough pain caring about him. I shouldn't complain though. Danny was worth every shock of pain my shapeless body could withstand…and more.

I should probably start at the beginning of my story and work in chronological order. Bear with me though, because as easy as that sounds, nothings ever been more difficult for me. Nothing but my life that is. Sometimes it's hard to keep track of _what_ happened _when_, and I can't begin to describe why it happened. It all just seems like a sea of pointless happenings. Ones that weren't as petty as they were pointless. A life molds a person and I look at myself now wondering how I'm not completely insane. The more I was exposed to what was wrong, the more I began to discover what was right and the more I wanted to experience it. Having to pull something beautiful from a pile of dog shit is no walk in the park, unless we're talking about a park in Detroit.

I had a name (still do), but it never made any difference, because I was continuously treated as some inanimate object. I was #3, a name designated by my father, meant to describe my placement in the "long" line of children he had. It was even crueler that Danny was given #10. I always told him he was #1 in my eyes. In my eyes, he was the only human being that wasn't entirely disturbed. I loved him. I never needed to say it, but I always did, because I knew he liked to hear it. It brought a goofy smile to his face, raised the sides of his lips, crinkled his button nose, and squinted his bright blue eyes like the characters in manga. I would giggle, causing a chain reaction that led him to hysterical chuckling. Then I would wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. He always kept me smiling because he was always in the best mood. But when he was in pain, I could feel my heart throwing itself around inside of me.

I sang him to sleep, a song our mother sang to me every night. After she died, I had the hardest time falling asleep. She didn't die because of Danny, no matter how much my father believed that. I'm not quite sure why she died. I've accepted that God does that a lot. He kills people off and no ones really sure why. My mother always said we can't be mad at him for it. I thought it was maybe because he'd kill us off too.

Well any-who, the song I sang to him was a nice little tune. It made both of us feel safer. It brought my mother back to me. That warm fuzzy feeling tingling on my skin and throughout my whole body. That was what it brought back.

_My sweet little darling_

_Asleep in his bed._

_I tuck him in softly_

_And kiss his sweet head._

_I thank God he gave me, my sweet little boo._

_Love knew I'd be happy when it blessed me with you._

Of course when my mommy sang it to me it was "her" instead of "him". He was always asleep by the "_you_". I was hardly ever asleep. My mind didn't want to calm down. So I sat next to him, while he cuddled up to his bear that he named "Einstein." He thought that since he wasn't smart, his bear should be. I tried to explain to him that there's more than one kind of smart. He wasn't very agreeable about anything though. I liked when he was asleep and couldn't argue with me. He went away in his sleep and it made me feel better for him to be far from the turmoil and the life he'd been cursed with. My father really believed that Danny was a creation of the devil, because when he was born our mother died. It was a hard blow on his happiness. Our mother was the only thing that held him upright. He was trapped in his mind, by his own mental illness, but when she was alive, he was so busy being trapped in her love that he forgot how to cry. When she died he became an expert at it. As much pain as he caused Danny and I, I felt terrible for him, because he was my father….. I loved him. It would have crushed anyone's spirit to see him like he was. He was never alright without mom and he was mad about being so down. He hated himself, which quickly turned to hatred toward us. Somewhere beyond it, trapped deep within his mind, was a world where he loved us. The only world that we ever should have lived in, where Danny was our angel and mom's death made us stronger. That's way better than a world where a father won't even hold his newborn son and attempts to leave him at the hospital. I remember holding that same baby that my father condemned and how beautiful he was. And in that moment of his sleep, I went back to the moment of his birth. He looked just darling with his eyes shut peacefully, dreaming about God knows what. I wished I could get inside his dreams so I'd know what he was thinking. But just as he couldn't leave his mind, I couldn't enter it.


	2. The First

**Chapter-The First**

My father was fairly okay at first and our punishments were normal. Still, Danny had a hard time dealing with them. He would cry before he was even hit, because he remembered how much it had hurt the last time. Sometimes he would hit himself because he thought my father would let him alone as long as **someone** did the hitting. He never did let him alone. I remember that the only time we ever found happiness was when our father went to work and left us by ourselves. He worked as a secretary for some company. I didn't really care to ask which one. He dressed up all nice in his snazzy suits. He looked like a real nice guy when he was all dressed up, but we knew better. He was only nice when he was drugged or when certain people were around.

There wasn't much to do in the house, but we always entertained ourselves. We had board games and even though Danny had once attempted to eat them, they were still usable. We had every game you can think up. That was because our mother encouraged me to learn through play as a toddler and I encouraged Danny. I don't think I learned very much from board games, just that there was a whole body of land devoted to candy. I wanted to find it someday. Our dad never gave us candy, even on Easter. He took all our candy away after Halloween and shared it with his buddies on poker nights. His poker buddies were disgusting, potbellied lowlifes that were about just as good at coming up with mean remarks as he was. He never let us choose what to be for Halloween, or for any part of our life really. Danny wanted to be a butterfly one year. He was so excited about it when I sewed him a colorful little pair of wings, but my dad took them away. I saved up money I collected from sidewalks and behind vending machines to buy the material I needed. It took about a year's worth of collecting to afford what I needed. If you're looking for something to do with about 10 hours of your time, sewing butterfly wings is the thing for you. I felt accomplished afterwards and I never felt bad about doing it. He should have, but dad never felt bad about what he did. I'm not sure where he put them, but at the time I was thankful that I didn't know.

I remember the look on Danny's face when I surprised him with the wings. His eyes lit up like the fourth of July and every dimple on his face appeared simultaneously. I remember how that look was slapped off his face when my father ripped them from his hands. It didn't matter how much happiness I gave Danny. Father always took it away. I remember how angry I was that I did all that work for nothing but Danny's disappointment.

We also had one tiny television with a couple working channels. Danny would turn on Dora the Explorer. That was his favorite. He always interacted with it and got me involved too. At first I told him I thought it was a waste of my energy, but he grabbed both my arms and yelled at me to do something useful and help Dora out. It wasn't easy to say no to him. Plus, I was good at helping, so I did. Every time that show came on, we helped Dora get away from Swiper the fox. The no good thief that hid terribly and was really easy to spot. For some reason Dora couldn't seem to figure out where he was without our help. That's the funny thing about children's shows; they have goofy little characters that can't do anything by themselves. Even the easiest tasks like spotting a bright orange fox on a lime green background. I guess Danny could kind of relate to Dora. They both needed other people to do anything. The only difference was Dora was living it up as an explorer. Danny only had time and energy to survive. There was nothing in our quiet neighborhood to explore anyhow.

Jerry Springer wasn't really appropriate for us, especially Danny, but we liked it anyway. Danny would reenact what he saw on there and take on the role of some fat slut cheating on her skinny boyfriend. It was funny until he did it in front of other people. Patterns in white trash relationships quickly became clear to even Danny. The men were always scrawny and the women were hippos. I never understood it. I never understood people in general and I didn't have many sources to gather information from. I needed something to base my conclusion off of.

We didn't get to see what was happening in the world a lot so we really had no clue. My view of mankind was formed from my bipolar father, his drunken work buddies, his insane family, Danny, my malicious classmates, and the people on Jerry Springer. You can see why I had such little faith in the human race.

I was trapped in that house all day every day. I couldn't seem to blame it on anyone but myself. The truth is that man traps himself. The walls that suffocate him and the bars that strangle his freedom were forged with his own two hands. What can he blame when only he has hands accompanied by the heart to create? It doesn't matter who you are or what you want to do with your life, when you're born into chains, constructed by your brethren, you're born to suffer, nothing more.

It didn't matter who I was as an individual. The world was something entirely different and it chose my fate. I saw its evil and I thought I could escape it. I thought I could decide to not be a part of it, but everywhere I turned was the world, and there was nowhere to run to. I always felt victimized like a helpless baby or something. I didn't know what mishaps to blame on myself and what to blame onto others. Accusation is a useful tool for evading reality. Unfortunately I was very critical of myself. I was raised to believe that everything bad that happened was because of me. It never made sense how I connected to things that happened all around the world when I was stuck in my house. That didn't matter though, because I never had a solid personality. I didn't want to know who I really was. I could have been a serial killer for all I knew or maybe even the next messiah. Messiahs don't entertain suicidal thoughts now that I think about it, so I must not have been one. I would have checked, but I couldn't see myself. We didn't have a single mirror in our house (dad said that Danny would look in them and break them), so to me I hardly existed. I sometimes forgot I did. Just a spectator in a sinner's game, observing life more than actually living it.

I watched the way Danny behaved, his wide range of facial expressions, the way he reacted to sadness, humor, and the fear in his eyes when he awoke every morning, probably from some splendid dream, realizing where he actually was. It's cruel how your own mind teases you like that. It puts you in the right place and then takes you away from it and doesn't even leave a map for you to find your way back. It causes fear in people. So much fear that water drips down their cheeks and their eyes open up wide, instead of closing like they should for protection. They freeze in the moment. Danny was different. His eyebrows squinted when he was afraid, but his eyes didn't open and he fell down into a ball instead of freezing in place. He saw it work on animal planet.

Days were always interesting with Danny. He made sure of it. I couldn't always be at home with him though. I was supposed to be in school. It wasn't somewhere I wanted to be, but it was somewhere I could make something of myself and experience the presence of other people. There were all kinds of people at Caldwell Middle School. Some of them were pretty and some were ugly, some were dumb and some were smart, some were obese and some were anorexic. They flocked together accordingly. I didn't waste my time with trying to get their approval. I'd spent most of my life without any at all, so it didn't bother me one fucking bit. My classes were filled with ignorant people. The most ignorant ones had the highest status at the school. One of the "cool" kids, Henry Schitlevski, was always bugging me about my personal life.

"You got a retard for a brother, don't you? I sure feel bad for you. Why if I had a retard for a brother I'd a shot him a long damn time ago and got it over with. Do you ever want to? Don't you worry that he's gonna give you a disease or something? I seen some of them up at the store the other day, and they was shit ugly. If I woke up in the night and somethin' like that was anywhere near me, I'd soil myself."

It was the middle of class and I tried to let it go. Our social studies teacher, Mrs. Lewin, was (in the nicest word I can find) a bitch. I let it slide day after day, clenched fist after clenched fist. I would miss weeks at a time on occasion and when I came back, there Henry would be to ask me why I was gone. He made up stories about how he heard that Danny killed our mother with his retard strength.

"Mr. Collins down the street said he heard a story bout your brother killin' your mama. He mows his lawn a lot half naked. You seen him? Well anyway, you know what I think? There's no use with a life like that. I think she went and killed herself." He grinned maliciously.

When he brought my mother into it, he'd gone too far. I stood up, right out of my chair and I yelled angrily down at his disgusting, sun burnt face.

"You watch what you say bout all that. If you ain't careful my mom might not be the only one that Danny kills." It took a minute for what I said to sink in.

When it did I was sorry I'd said it. Never sorrier for anything in my life. Not even the time I wore dad's work suit and ripped a hole in it. My dad nearly ripped a whole in **me**! I would have given anything to be back in that moment though. Anything was better than being in that classroom, after what had just come out of my mouth.

Mrs. Lewin's face turned bright red and her eyes bulged out of her wrinkly old face. She sucked her lips in to look like a fish. The kind of fish that lurks in the pitch black depths of the ocean. That was her angry face and it was never good when she made it at a student. It meant she was being her usual super anal self. I bet it was also her sex face. It's hard to think about your teacher having sex, but when it comes down to it, you know it happens. That just gets you thinking about what it looks like. It places an uncomfortable smile below your nose while you're thinking about it. You don't even know you're smiling. You don't even realize it's funny.

Apparently she didn't think anything about the situation was funny, because when I started giggling to myself, her lips squeezed even tighter. I was in for hell. The devil was unfortunately on vacation and I had Mrs. Lewin to deal with. I was completely stuck anyway I looked at it. I had just threatened another student's life, admitted openly that my brother was a murderer, and worst of all disrupted her lecture on Gandhi.

I don't see what the big deal with Gandhi is anyway. We obviously don't listen to any of his damn ideas. He fought his whole life for what was right, and we've only moved farther from that over the years. If we have anyone we idolize and should admit to worshipping, it's Adolph fucking Hitler. I see more racists and killers around me than I see selfless heroes. If you don't believe me, then go home and look in a mirror. Are you a selfless hero? Or are you just some frightened attention seeker wandering through your pathetic life? Would you rescue a boy from a fire just to make it in the paper? Or would you refuse to be interviewed on the subject? I wouldn't have been surprised if my little statement made it in the paper the next morning. They sure weren't about to let it go.

The principles office was a scary place to be. There was **no** smiling there. They might as well have had a sign on the door that said that. The kids in the seats next to me were shaking so much that I could feel the vibrations. They weren't thinking about what kind of signs to hang. They were probably thinking about what their parents were going to do when they found out. When they called my father and told him what I'd done, he'd surely rough me up as soon as look at me. I wasn't so worried about that though. I was worried that he'd displace his anger on Danny and it would be my fault. I would hear him screaming from upstairs and never forgive myself for it. His cries alone felt like leather whipping against my skin. Leather that left marks, even hard to look at. They would heal eventually, but the pain they caused in my mind would remain forever. It wasn't the beatings themselves that hurt me; it was the hatred behind them. I guess that's the kind of pain that hurts the most. The kind of pain that no amount of love can erase.

We sat there for at least an hour. We got more done in that hour than the secretaries did. Everybody in an office moves so flippin' slow. Just think about it. Have you ever gone to the doctor's office and wondered what was taking them so long? They didn't seem like they were doing much, did they? It's because they weren't. Those buggers. They're just used to moving at their own pace and expecting the same from others, because they're the one with the MD, not you. One day I was going to get an MD and then everyone would have to move at my pace. I'd live the good moments of my life in slow motion and fast forward through the bad ones. Wouldn't that be grand?

The vice-principal staggered out of his office in slow motion and scratched away at his balls just as slowly. I guess that was a good moment of his life. It definitely wasn't a pleasant one for me. His clothes were always far too tight and his voice was always far too high (For a man anyway). I watched the bright red fabric of his pants drag his goods from side to side as he strolled toward me. If only someone had the guts to tell him how ridiculous he looked, like an aerobics instructor.

"(name of girl)?"

I raised my hand hesitantly. 

"Right here sir."

"Please follow me to my office." He glanced at the other kids and raised one eyebrow as if to warn them that they were next.

I followed him past the large desks and into the wooden door of his own personal playground. I sat in the uncomfortable culprit's chair and he lowered gracefully onto his cushioned leather throne. It took him a moment to say anything at all. He was probably trying to allow for some dramatic effect, but it was just awkward. Sitting in a room alone with any adult is always awkward. He looked down onto his papers. They were scattered across his desk like a hurricane had just come through. He grabbed one from the mess and looked down at it, then up at me, then down at the paper, and up at me once more. I played with the yellow play dough in my pocket that I'd jacked from science class.

"So you came from Mrs. Lewin's."

"Yes sir."

"Don't speak."

"Sorry sir." I sank into my chair.

"That's quite alright. Your behavior in class today, however, wasn't. You know Henry's parents could press charges against you. I called them, and luckily for you, they don't intend to. Instead the school will be taking measures to punish this disgraceful act. I have called your father.."

My stomach jumped up into my heart.

"He apologized and agreed that harsh punishment should be arranged. You will be staying after school every day for the next two weeks in detention. If you can do that successfully, you will be forgiven. If anything goes wrong during this time, the severity will be great and you can plan on taking summer school. Do you understand?"

"I understand sir and I'm really sorry for everything. Will you tell Henry's parents that if you talk to them again?" I wasn't sorry though. Not a bit. Henry's parents were probably huge assholes just like him.

"Sure I will."


	3. The second

**Chapter the Second **

Once upon a time, father loved Danny and God watched over us, but once upon a time father also stopped taking his medication. He said it numbed his personality and ruined who he was. I knew that his personality was doomed either way. The love had faded from his eyes and without it he had no defense against the pain. The pain soon turned to hatred and the hatred turned to cigarette burns on Danny's face. Our father was supposed to love us and protect us from all that crap. Instead, he himself embodied agony and hatred. He embodied everything that was bad about the world and always would be. People didn't even see it; they didn't want to see it.

. That afternoon would be a terrible one when my father arrived home. I would have a few hours before that though so I would use them to clean up the house. I figured if I kissed his ass maybe he'd give me a break. I wasn't a big fan of ass kissing, but father was that's all that matters when you're a kid. Argue all you want. Criticize the system, but it won't change, and you'll only suffer more from being stubborn. That's one of the lessons I learned about fighting. Sometimes it's pointless.

One day I was going to fight my way through life and not even my father was going to stop me. That day wasn't then or the day after. It was a day so far away, that I sometimes became exhausted and restless waiting for it. Patience was one of my strongest qualities. All I could do was wait. I waited to be in the arms of my mother and for the day when my brother would fly free. I waited for our wings to grow, even when my father clipped them regularly. I based my patience off of one principle: Baby birds that don't wait to fly, fall out of their nests and lie in excruciation awaiting death.

I wanted terribly to plummet 100 feet from the top of a tree. Though, I guess it wasn't terribly enough. I stayed, but not for my life, for Danny. To this day I can't figure out how one bird can love another bird so much that they choose to stay trapped in their nest when freedom is a few waddles away. I bet if they jumped, they'd look up the whole time they were falling, wishing they were back at the top again. If you have anyone to love, they're worth living for, through anything and for any length of time. The existence of Danny reminded me that daily.

I passed through the halls between the last hours of the day. People passed by me on both sides, often accidentally hitting me with a body part or their backpack. They chattered fluently in every compass direction. My mind was carried up and down by a wave provoked by the entirety of their voices. I watched their faces pass and wondered if they knew how I felt. They must have seen the misery in my eyes. I saw nothing in theirs. I knew there was supposed to be something unique to each and every one of them, but I couldn't see much beyond the glazed surface of their iris. Colors empty of meaning. Souls empty of complexity. Their simplicity was ultimately their innate joy. They never had to think about anything beyond what happened to them every day. They couldn't see past the horizon and their minds didn't wander in search of more no matter how still they stood. They were prisoners of their own minds, much like Danny, but they didn't know it.

In 6th hour, the moving hands of the clock threatened my content. Most children waited impatiently for the day to end, but even though school was miserable, I wished it went all evening. I wished I went to boarding school. I wouldn't have been home sick at all. Being at home was what made me sick, not being away from it. Home is supposed to be a safe haven, a place you escape _to_, not a place you wish to escape _from_. Feeling unsafe no matter where you are drives a person insane, especially a child. That's what it did to me, along with several other factors. I didn't much enjoy clocks either because time by itself doesn't mean any thing; it's what happens during time. A lot can happen in a year that doesn't happen in 10. A person can be ready to die by the time they're 12 or willing to live by the time they're 91. The 12 year old knows they have several decades left and a 91 year old knows their time is soon. Humans waste so much of their lives with measurements of time that they don't understand it isn't important.

Time carried out its threat and the bell obnoxiously buzzed through the lonely hallways. The teacher continued to speak as students hurried out. No one listened to her but me. I watched her as she spoke, frustrated with their rudeness and masked with false pride. I felt my own pride disappear with hers. I always felt deeply for others, but no one felt for me. The weight of my mind was my burden to bear and mine alone. Not even God helped me. Maybe he believed that I was strong enough to carry it. Or maybe he wasn't watching at all. Maybe I was alone.

Realizing that the classroom was scarce of children, I awkwardly hustled out. I didn't want her to speak to me, because I didn't ever know what to say back. People thought I was shy because of that, but if I could have found any response at all, I would have been the loudest bugger around. Much like I was with Danny. Oh the memories of our times together. They held my humor in tact through all the seriousness and hopelessness. There was always something we could joke about. There was always a moment in my childhood that I didn't mind looking back on.

"(name of girl)?" Danny's eyes peered intently through the openings of the closet. "where's ou at?"

He walked backward, tripped over a shoe near the steps and stumbled into a bucket of our finger paint. He whined helplessly and stood up. His butt was dripping brown.

A giggle escaped from my throat. His head swung around violently. The intensity of the hunt drew him to the drama.

"I hear ou." He whispered secretively. His mouth produced a goofy little grin.

He was never going to find me up in the rafters. He never looked anywhere but the closet. I felt so very clever right then. I sort of wished he'd find me though, because the unsettled dust was giving me allergies. That's the kind of gift you get from _my_ gene pool.

As I moved my leg out of an uncomfortable position, he paused in his tracks and I swore he was going to look up. I waited in suspense for him to discover me so I could jump down. Instead he spun around and ran spastically to the closet. I sighed deeply. The closet fetish had lost its entertaining quality quite a few years ago.


End file.
